Spiritual pursuit through Story

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Empire

This floating ideal

The path precarious
The pitch slight

Other feet ascend
Proof; the rise can be walked

From a distance
The coiling ribbon, seen

Yet, as your own foot falls
The path becomes, unclear

Ideal – an island
Suspended in sky

Empire – a lattice work
Of those connected, in faith
Built up… from the ground

This floating ideal

The path precarious
The pitch slight

Other feet ascend
Proof; the rise can be walked

From a distance
The coiling ribbon, seen

Yet, as your own foot falls
The path becomes, unclear

Ideal – an island
Suspended in sky

Empire – a lattice work
Of those connected, in faith

Built up… from the ground

3rd Life

I just returned home from a funeral.

I have become a sur-realist (as I unwind the knot from my necktie and concurrently attempt to untangle the corkscrew of my thoughts).

Often, there are those surreal moments of epiphany experienced at funerals—as you remember the deceased. But today I am a witness to the living.

Most of us only get to meet people that have died once. And we meet them before they die…

I met a man today that has died twice, and we both stood there living (and breathing) at the graveside of my great aunt, Edna.

It was shared at the funeral that both of my elderly great aunts, Edna & Emma, had loved on this young man named Johnny that began attending the country church there—the Church of God of Prophecy—just off Brushgrove Road, near Willisburg KY.

There was nothing quite like receiving a hug from Aunt Edna (She had arms that did not know their own strength and you could feel the warmth of Spirit). This was a truth that helped change Jonny’s life.

Johnny Hackworth was a coal miner, from Eastern KY, that had also spent some time driving a truck, and had developed some back problems. On the drive over to the cemetery he shared that he had died three weeks ago, during a back surgery that turned south—the second time he had died he lamented (the first time was due to a drug overdose nine years before).

One unraveling thought: what might God have in store for this year-10? Why is Johnny still here?

The medical team lost “J. Hackworth” for 15 minutes…had done everything they could, and the doctors were about to hit his chest with the paddles a second time (just for good measure) so that when they were to tell the family that they did everything they could it would have been the truth—and just before then is when his lungs spontaneously sprang back to life, and fully inflated with air. His heart began to beat, again.

The doctors had never seen the likes of this before. This sudden revival, without a second “jolt”. And the callus, labor-weary nurses that were usually numb to such occurrences had tears welling in their eyes when J. Hackworth opened his eyes and obliviously asked, “Is everything going alright?”

I had a question for Johnny, as we approached Edna’s, graveside on that brisk November day, in 2023. I asked whether he had anything “Prophetic” to report following his journey back from “the other side”.

“All I can tell you,” he said frankly, “is that the first time I felt a cold, dark…and pain, and the second time I died there was only calmness and peace.”

What happened in between, was Edna, and Emma, and a dude that Hackworth used to mine coal with, standing serendipitously in the pulpit…Brother Creech…talking about forgiveness and a guy named Jesus.

The Florian Effect

There is nothing meta-physically heightened about my state of being (that I know of)…I mean I did read an article last night on the nature of quantum mechanics and how it may relate to spacetime and consciousness, but I also choked on my bran flakes this morning.

I usually roll out of bed around 6:30am EST and proceed to get four kids between the ages of 6 and 13 ready for school—which is a challenge in and of itself—but the absolute first thing I do is check my phone’s lock screen for a text alert from my dear wife usually asking for a small favor (the proverbial straw that threatens to break the camel’s back).

This morning the alert was there, with the little green text icon, but the name next to the icon was not my wife’s name. The name was the name of a childhood friend, who I had only seen maybe twice in the last twenty years. A few years ago I saw him for for a few seconds outside a gas station and then I saw him again a couple years after that at a restaurant, three tables over. In both cases I did not say much more than: Hi—how are ya doin’.

After brushing my teeth, when I looked at the text again, it was my wife’s name next to the icon (and a message from her that appeared), not a message from Florian.

Strange. I knew what I had seen. And a feeling compelled me to contact him.

I knew that Florian’s father had recently—a couple months back—had a nearly fatal accident…so I figured I would offer some help, and send up a quick prayer. The feeling said, send a message now.

I sent a message through social media, since I could not even locate his number in my new cell phone. I told him that I was praying peace over his family.

One hour later he messaged me back. His dad was on the mend he had said, but his daughter was currently in an out-of-state hospital, having had a surgery the day before. He asked for continued prayers—for rapid healing…which I promised to give.

Perhaps we already know the name for the quantum mechanics happing at the subatomic level. His name is God (and He either has access to our cellular devices, or influence over our consciousness, or—probably—both).

ANGELsENVY

It is a strange thought, that the angels could envy us—for anything.

Time, though, is something angels are unable to experience. The slow passing of days and the lightning velocity of the years that blink by, as we cling to cherished recollections.

The “Angel’s Share” is the portion of fermented spirits that evaporate into thin air, as spirits are aged, reaching a ripeness of maturity.

Angel’s Envy (established in 2006) is fairly new Kentucky Bourbon brand on the scene and while it is a requirement of bourbon whiskey to be crafted in America, any of the 50 States can be chosen to craft (and age) the one uniquely, original American Spirit—Bourbon.

That being said, 95% of bourbon is still barreled in Kentucky.

The seasons in Kentucky (i.e. “Bourbon Country), fluctuate wildly from periods of intense heat and humidity, to stark cold days (at the head of spring and at the tail of autumn) and random, warm days in the mid of winter. It is said that these erratic variances in temperature make Kentucky the perfect place to age bourbon whiskey. There is a saying: “If you don’t like the weather in Kentucky just stay a day, it will change.”

We have another saying in Bourbon Country: “Never plant your flowers before Derby Day”. The horses run The Kentucky Derby (“The Run for the Roses”)—almost always—on the first Saturday in May and have done so, largely uninterrupted, since 1875. The horses ran, even on the years during The Great Depression and both world wars. Planting your annuals prior to Derby Day, there is a good chance the frost will claim the delicate buds…so a true Kentuckian knows better than to rush their beauty.

Time is required.

This same time—patience—can be experienced in a sip of Bourbon.

I grew up in Lawrenceburg, KY. Our home was situated on the rolling hills that comprise the land between two major Kentucky distilleries: Wild Turkey and Four Roses.

I remember my first taste of bourbon-ball candy as a youngster and remember the smell of bourbon on the summer breeze, as we traveled the road along the Salt River to my friend’s house—out Bonds Mill Road.

I attended Church services in the orange-brick church on the hill. Turquoise, tinted windows affording a muted light to exposed wooden rafters and raw pine planks, that ran the length of the ceiling. I remember examining the pine knots during long-winded Southern Baptist sermons.

Peeking from behind a hymnal, was Master Distiller Jimmy Russell, who still serves as Master Distiller for Wild Turkey even today. There is something to be said of traditions. Except for candy, my folks never touched a drop of the stuff: Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

I have never lost my faith, but have gained an appreciation for Bourbon.

Jimmy has been making Bourbon since it was not fashionable to do so. Then, later, in the 80s, the clear liquors of cocktails stole attention away from the amber tone.

I wonder, if Jimmy knew at the time the legacy he was crafting.

I think we all remember our first sip of coffee, our first drink of beer, the first time we bit into a bourbon-ball. These are acquired tastes, first experienced, later appreciated.

“Buy LOCAL”, comes the new phrase.

We can all feel it; with locality comes authentic experience.

Consumers become people again—folks that care—not only about the ends, but about the means. We again care for how a thing is done…for the time that goes into crafting something truly great and there is one thing that is for sure—you can’t rush Bourbon whiskey.

The appreciation for Kentucky Bourbon, and therefore demand for Kentucky Bourbon has never been higher than it is now.

The ‘Straight’, in the Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, is an indicator that a bourbon has spent at least two years in a barrel. Here are the ABC’s of making bourbon:

A – American made (as I had already mentioned)

B – Barrel is required to be a brand new, charred, Oak

C – Corn distillation at least 51 % paired with varying quantities of Barley and Rye (recipe depending) and sometimes Wheat is substituted for Rye.

DEFG… it continues.

“All Bourbon is Whiskey, but not all Whiskey is Bourbon.”

The tall hundred-year-old Kentucky White Oaks pull heritage from the soil, and drink water from sweet limestone springs (filtering the iron from the water). The growth of each tree, is fed on the decomposition of leaves, and other native forest foliage that collect beneath wild Kentucky grape vines and amongst patches of ferns.

The flavors of the charred-Oak wood, and the sweetness of Kentucky River water, play against one another as the distillation swells into and back out of the planks of wood (swelling with the heat and shrinking back from the cold). Between thirty and thirty-three staves of wood meet to form a single barrel. Presumably a single barrel of bourbon could include notes of 33 individual trees, the most celebrated bourbons aged 10 years or more.

Angels Envy reports that every year a barrel surrenders (5%) of their contents to the “Angel’s Share”. Thus, a bourbon aged six years has contributed roughly 1/3 of its contents to the heavenly realms. Angel’s Envy was then appropriately named to celebrate what has been left behind—a celebration of time (and thus the envy of the angels).

There is a third-generation employee at Buffalo Trace Distillery, Freddie—if you can call really a call him an employee (as he is more an ambassador)—who still leads VIP tours through the Buffalo Trace Distillery in Franklin County. Freddie Johnson left a career as an engineer to fulfill the wishes of his father and grandfather. He came home to learn the art of crafting Bourbon from his terminally-ill father. Freddie was honored with being asked to roll out the 7 millionth barrel with his grandson—across the yard and into to its home for the next several years. (These “Millionth” barrels are auctioned for Charity.)

There is something truly charitable about the sharing of a “good” Bourbon.

Freddie has on occasion shared the story of another gentleman—that he encountered as he led a Distillery tour. This man was verbally recounting his collection to his tour mates, telling of all the rare bottles of bourbon that he had acquired—and shelved—in his home.

“But, when do you enjoy any of it?” Freddie asked, as the man went quiet.

“Bourbon is meant to be shared.” Freddie pleaded.

The man went quiet, and departed.

This same gentleman, weeks later, shared a story of his own in a letter sent to Freddie—thanking him. A few of his son’s friends had been visiting from college and were major “Bourbon Enthusiasts”. The man pulled down a bottle from his prized collection and opened it up. He shared it with his son and his friends.

The man confessed to Freddie, that his son had hugged him that evening; for the first time since he was a young boy, his son had publicly acknowledged affection for his father…and he did so in the presence of his friends. He said, “Thanks Dad, for what you did.”

All of this to say, that in a final estimation, what—in life—is more spiritual than how we choose to encounter time? We have few things that the angels are to envy us for, and one of those things is time. The other is Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

When we take time away from our busy agendas, what is most significant is who we choose to share that time with.

Here is the claim of Angel’s Envy:

There’s bourbon. And then there’s divine inspiration painstakingly crafted into a spirit so sublime you’ll want to share it with the world. We make the second one.

The sharing of Bourbon, is the sharing of time.

Them Scott Boys

“You heard about them Scott Boys?”

Now, I have to admit, sitting where I am sitting…I am not sure what is coming next. We are deep in the heart of the country where a good-ole boy is either about to tell us a tall tale, or else two other good-ole boys may pop their heads around the corner just in time to corroborate the teller’s facts.

“Aww yeah…I tell everybody from the interstate this one, anyone who blows a tar and shows up out front.”

Out front is where Larry points to as moves toward the door.

The sign beside the door reads: Larry’s Tire and Auto Repair, but if you phone him from the interstate he would answer with a simple “Larry’s Tar”; the pronunciation of “tire” telling you that you are indeed in Willisburg, KY.

My nephew and I rise from our seats and try and get a better view, though I am sure he has heard this one before. He is sipping at a root beer that he pulled from the fridge, up towards the front of the shop.

“Right over yonder, ‘tween them two street signs, there used to be a general store and them Scott boys—now I never knew them; they was older than me—but now R.C. Divine and Thomas Cecil used to come into the shop and those two had come up with them…now them Scott boys were bad guys—they never kilt nobody—but they was in that evil way.”

Larry gave me a sideways eye, making sure that I caught his meaning. He then returned his stare back across the road to the 15 feet of grass between two road signs—Sportsman Ln. and Circle Dr.

“Now that general store had a safe in the back, and them Scott Boys liked explosives…R.C. said he remembers that there was money floating up and down the street that day…and them Scott Boys made off with most of it.”

This is the point in the story where if Larry was a smoker he would have, taken one last drag for dramatic effect and stamped the butt of his non-existent storytelling prop into an ash tray before delivering the goods.

“Well, The Law caught up to them of course, and put the older brother in Alcatraz. Yeah…I reckon Clint Eastwood played one of them brothers in the movie. You seen that right? Escape from Alcatraz?” 

Now, I did not see that coming!

Here I am…10 miles from nowhere, and find out it is home to 1 of 5 guys in the world that came close to escaping one of the most inescapable prisons in history.

Pulling some research from the Wikipedia page a few nights later I read this:

Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay was the site of Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary between 1934 and 1963. There were a total of 14 escape attempts from the prison made by 34 prisoners during this time. Two men tried twice, making for a total of 36 individual escape attempts; fifteen were caught, eight gave up, seven were shot and killed, one was confirmed to have drowned and five are listed as “missing and presumed drowned”. Faced with high maintenance costs and a poor reputation, Alcatraz closed on March 21, 1963.

John Paul Scott and Darl Lee Parker were the last two prisoners to attempt to escape from Alcatraz [on December 16th, 1962]. Scott and Parker used a makeshift saw to cut through the bars on a kitchen window in the cell house, then ran to the edge of the island and jumped into the water. Parker was found alive 81 yards from the main island on the rock formation Little Alcatraz. Scott reached Fort Point beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, where he was found by teenagers, suffering from hypothermia and exhaustion. After recovering in Letterman General Hospital, he was returned to Alcatraz. It is the only proven case of an Alcatraz inmate reaching the shore by swimming.

The next time I spoke to Larry we chatted a bit about this…and Larry had this to say:

“Now ole R.C. Divine spoke to several reporters and journalists over the years, but he never told them that he was the one who learnt them Scott Boys how to swim.”

Six months before this last successful attempt, in June, was the attempt made famous by the Clint Eastwood’s Hollywood classic “Escape from Alcatraz”.  There were two other brothers (the Anglin brothers), as told in the film, that Clint tried to lead to freedom.

Ole Clint didn’t have nothing on that Scott boy though! In the movie Clint’s character, Frank, and the Anglin brothers had built a makeshift boat to aide in their escape, while John Paul Scott decided December was a swell month to swim for it.

I would wager to say that if John Paul had swam for it six months earlier, when the water temp was 10 degrees warmer, then maybe J. P. Scott would have been the one sitting at Larry’s Tire telling the patrons an even more astonishing tale—a story to hang their hats on!

Landmark Living

Who, if not me will remember…


That she lay in Room 724,

at the very end of a long, austere hallway?

Who will remember the length of her hair,

and to which side of the pillow her head lay; which of her cheeks touched the pillow, as she gathered her last, labored breaths?

I studied her.

Each rise and fall of her chest, noted which temple was kissed by the imperfection of her skin spot.

I am a visitor, looking through a similar plastic visor as all the doctors and nurses; we all look like surgeons. CV-19-PPE

My arms covered in the same plastic, swishing with each deft movement.

How many have thought “her hair looks quite lovely”?

Though it is hard to see her, in this state.

This state is not imperfect.

Her life has been a landmark,

and a guide for many.

Home has always been on Loretta;

because she was there.

Now, she points the way to another home

and reminds us…

That this is not our home,

we are only guests.

Landmarks, of what is to come.

Bon Appetit

(A Farewell to Melissa’s Cottage Cafe)

Melissa’s [drew] in that cozy feeling you [got] when visiting your favorite grandmother. From the staff, to the squirt of lemon in your sweet tea—it all feels like home:

Walking thru the door…as the floorboards creak

Eyeing around for my favorite seat

As we are seated

laughs and smiles fill the air

Because at the door

Is left, all despair

So for you who is reading this

Anxious, ready to feast

I wish you a great meal

so to you

Bon Appetit

-Justin Kinder 9/23/2017

Kim’s [W]raps

Small business adds worth, that cannot be measured. We have lost more than soups and wraps. Here is a “retirement rap” track Kim that laid down (before a pandemic forced her and her husband to lay down their small business—that meant much to so many).


We share stories ‘bout our babies oh so sweet

Especially pictures of their cute little feet

They make me smile from ear to ear

but that’s not all, cuz when you come down here

You’re gettin coffee, a burrito—maybe some lunch

You must know I love you a whole big bunch

With your stylish clothes and trendy hair

I’ve always known you’s goin somewhere

Now you’re jumpin ship; you’re gettin out

You best believe, their ain’t no doubt

This is your day—your time has come

To make [Yourself] #1

So rest, relax—do your nails

Walk about some happy trails

You did the work, you played the part

Now I say sincerely, with all my heart

You’re a beautiful girl, both kind and smart

That’s also blessed with a big ole’ heart

It’s not enlarged—no, not in size!

But in volume of love you’d win a prize

So, if you’re ever bored or just get a minute

Come get a drink…and I’ll put something in it

<3 Kim

Love Like Wine

(Below is the 1st Chapter of Bill’s debut book: Sweet Mellow Red)

True love is like a fine wine: sweet and mellow and red. 

I believe there is a reason that certain people enter our lives. Some individuals are sent to remind us of the hardness of the human heart…they are barren grounds where little can grow. Others have souls of rich soil that give nourishment to green vines and sweet fruits. There are very few hearts, however, that yield a grape so exquisite that you yearn to bottle it up. Oh, to know such a person whose presence could be uncorked in a time of great despair; to know a love that can be trusted to pour its light into unknown, unsheltered nights.

I have the pleasure of knowing a person like this, a lady with red hair that shines auburn in the sunlight and whose blue eyes, at times, are as green as the sea shallows following a storm. Eyes that are wreathed in a deep, misty blue that always betrays the depth that lies beneath. She has a presence that pours over you as peace…and grace…and love. I have often pondered the mystery of what forms a person with a nature such as this. This person who has become the truest of friends to me.

Katherine—a lady that I call Sweet Mellow Red.

Great wines may indeed be dependent on rich soils, exposure to the sun, and high elevations. But there are other influences that make a great wine: tradition, for instance, and the careful attention of he whose hands work the vineyard. The creation of a “great vintage” is, in and of itself, an act of the truest love.

I will admit that I know very little of the production of wine, and less of fine wines—little of the art and great care that go into making a wine ‘fine’. Most of what I do know about wine is a collage of knowledge framed in picturesque vistas of false memory. Artificial moments collected through movie reels—powerfully artistic films—with backdrops of golden vineyards in the foothills of mountainous regions. Such scenes offer exhibitions of heartfelt moments, passionate romance, robust laughter, and deep love. It is love that stitches these tales together. Dramas, telling a story of fruits cultivated not just in geographic location but in the cradle of family tradition, rich culture, and a loving devotion to the vines. The wines in these stories are born works of art—beautiful portraits that influence all open to receiving their blessings.

Katherine’s story is a portrait such as this…

Looking at My Darling, Gwen

The day after losing my baby…I walked out this morning and the mist was just beautiful and it seemed that I could see her in every little valley and every little tree. Then, I looked up and I said “Good morning Baby.” And I came in and I thought I could hear her talking to me.

So I wrote this poem called:

Looking at My Darling, Gwen

I see her there—in the morning mists—she tells me: 

Sorry for the mist it’s just me watering my garden heavenly

I’m making us a home here,

just like before

I want you to be pleased,

When you walk through that door

Don’t worry Darling, I’m busy as a bee

Fixing up heaven, just the way you’d want it to be

Your Koi pond is up and running,

My potting shed is built,

The stone steps down to the garden

still have that little, tilt

The lilies are blooming,

Up here they never stop

You see, it never gets too cold

And definitely, never, never too hot

So watching you, Darling,

Looking at my morning mist

Just remember, when you get here

I’ll greet you with your favorite, good-morning kiss

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